


where angels fear to tread

by gwenwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 00:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20267422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenwrites/pseuds/gwenwrites
Summary: One demon and one very old café wait for Aziraphale to make up his mind.





	where angels fear to tread

After thousands of years of walking its surface, Aziraphale loved the world; he most especially adored its little nooks that felt like extensions of himself. He was part of his bookstore in SoHo, a piece of scenery in St. James’ Park, and a regular patron of café Procope. (The Library of Alexandria was magnificent too, until, well.)

He’d stumbled upon the café accidentally, after a delightful play at La Comedie Francaise in 1690. Feeling a bit peckish, he crossed the narrow street and entered the café immediately across from it. It wasn’t called café Procope, then; the chef still went by the name Cuto. But inside he found a noisy café of actors, writers, and artists crowded around small tables. It felt alive, exuberant, like they didn’t pay any mind to anything besides the quality of a new play or the tone of a young singer who’d just begun their career. The café smelled of coffee and tobacco, and the walls were paneled with dark wood. It was altogether more pleasant than most he’d ever visited in Paris until then, and he breathed a sigh of appreciation as he sat down. 

Coffee was still a more recent introduction to Europe, and Aziraphale ordered a cup of it gratefully. He was surprised when only moments later a young man sat down next to him without any warning.

“I saw you in the audience, didn’t I? Did you like the play?” He asked. Aziraphale squinted to make him out- it was an actor, from the show he’d just seen. The angel brightened.

“Yes, yes, it was fantastic!” he said. His mouth stumbled over the french vowels a little, but he was fluent enough. Aziraphale was constantly frustrated with that he was only completely fluent in English and old Hebrew after six thousand years on Earth. That was one of the fascinating things about humans, though; an angel could turn his back for a couple of decades and turn around again to find twenty new words in a language. By the time he’d learned to speak and read Latin fluently, they’d already moved on to another five or six languages. 

“Ah, you’re English?” the actor asked.

“No. Well, yes, in a way.”

“They have good plays, in England.” 

“Ah, yes. Shakespeare was a favorite. It hasn’t really been the same, though, since he passed. It’ll be a while until someone that magnificent comes along again.”

They talked for a while as they drank coffee, and Aziraphale appreciate talking to someone who knew so much about the arts- his name was Francois, he learned, which was always a good name to hear. Aziraphale had always been fond of humans and their incessant naming since the garden of Eden. Francois was one of the French’s best names, in his humble opinion, for its similarity to the name they gave their nation.

They ate dinner together, after the coffee, then wine. Aziraphale loved talking to humans, especially ones like Francois. He suspected that his affection for the ways of the species was getting out of hand, but he couldn’t quell the fondness for them that continued to grow over the centuries. The fondness was only comparable to one other -and far more fickle- love of his. 

Love. Aziraphale’s mind was wandering; he returned to focusing on Francois’ thoughts on the French playwright Molière. His care for humanity was safer, at least, than the other.

///

“S’ nice,” Crowley said. 

The Arrangement brought them to Paris in 1701. There was some meddling to be done in politics, for both of them, and there was no reason why they couldn’t cut costs and travel together.

(There were, in fact, a plethora of reasons as to why an angel and a demon shouldn’t share a voyage. Aziraphale pointedly refused to think about these reasons.)

When they got to the city, they booked a nice hotel room. Nice in Paris in the 1700’s often really meant not absolutely filthy, but the room was actually quite well furnished and clean. 

Small, but bearable.

“There’s only one bed, though,” Crowley mentioned. Aziraphale could feel his ears going pink. Having a human form was incredibly useful, but came along with the downside of less control.

“Ah, yes, well,” Aziraphale said, stepping towards the door. “I’ll just ask them if they have another room available.”

“Don’t bother, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s not?”

“‘Course not, Angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s blush bloomed to cover his entire face and neck. Just as it was creeping down his chest, Crowley snapped his fingers. In an instant, Crowley performed a demonic miracle: one large bed became two, with a meter or two in between them.

A demonic miracle, indeed. Aziraphale forced himself to smile.

“Well done. Saves the trouble of trying to get another room, at least.”

“No problem,” Crowley said. And it shouldn’t have been a problem, but Azirapahle’s poor human stomach sinking told him that he felt otherwise. In a human body, one could not hide from their emotions. If a person didn’t want to think about love or hate or any of the in-betweens, the body reacts as if it has an allergy. 

“Dunno about you, but I’m not in the mood to corrupt a cabinet official right now.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “And I’m not prepared to wake another cabinet official up to the injustices of his office.”

“Dinner, then?”

Aziraphale brightened up slightly. “I think I know just the place.”

Out on the street, Aziraphale hailed a carriage. When a driver pulled to the side to oblige them, Crowley wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“What an ugly thing, carriages,” Crowley said. “You’d think they’d come up with something better by now.”

“Would you rather walk?” Aziraphale replied, gesturing towards the filthy avenue outside. Horse manure and human waste stained the cobblestones of nearly all of Paris’ narrow streets.

Crowley managed to look even more disgusted by the alternative. “Nah.”

“As I thought,” Aziraphale said.

Café Procope looked almost identical to how it had when he’d first discovered the spot and three years ago when he’d visited again. The main difference, though, was that it finally had a name. When they stepped out of the carriage, Crowley looked up at the new sign.

“You’ve been here before?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, twice now. It’s been around for quite a while, for human standards.”

They stepped inside and took a seat. It was a little less dark than the last time he’d been in, and evening sunlight illuminated the front. They found a small table towards the back, and sat down.

The dining room was just as lively as it was the times he’d been in before, except perhaps more affluent- artists and actors now mingling with the lower level aristocracy instead of solely putting on shows for them. Maybe it was a tiny form of progress taking place in France’s rigid social class structure. When he mentioned this to Crowley, the demon only shrugged.

“Or they’re just bored, is all. Kings and queens like to keep jesters around, you know.”

Aziraphale huffed. “You always assume the worst.”

When they sat like this, facing each other, knees knocking into one another’s under the table, Aziraphale had to quite literally face the ugly truth in front of him: he’d fallen for a demon. (Crowley, of course, was far from ugly. Aziraphale found him visually pleasing from head to toe, which was part of the whole problem.)

Angels weren’t meant to have any feelings towards humans, aside from a mild benevolence. There were no rules for feelings about demons, but Aziraphale suspected that this was less of a minor oversight and more of a situation so unthinkable that no celestial authority thought to make a rule about it in the first place.

They ordered rosé and bourbon, respectively. Crowley held up his glass for a toast.

“_ Santé _, angel.”

Despite being immortal, Aziraphale felt as though he could die in his chair that very second.

“_ Santé _,” he replied meekly. Crowley was talking about something else, now, but Aziraphale could only half-focus. His mind had gone elsewhere, somewhere far too human.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked. Like the humans, he couldn’t keep his emotions hidden for long at all.

He nodded. “Might we get _ un gratin dauphinois _?”

“Dunno what that means, but alright.”

They took a carriage to return to their hotel, stomachs full of wine and bread. The sun had set, leaving the sky bespectacled with stars. Paris was still a dark city at night, then. The lack of frequent enough oil lamps hung up kept criminals safe, but also provided a better view of the night sky.

“You don’t see em’ like this in London,” Crowley said, tipping his chin up towards the carriage window. Aziraphale was still surprised, sometimes, at how similar their lines of thought could be.

“No, you don’t,” Aziraphale sighed. They were close, now, sitting thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. There wasn’t a reason for it, the rest of the carriage was empty. But being drunk, Aziraphale had learned, was an excuse humans often used to be close to one another, and Crowley and himself had fallen into their habits quite easily. Thousands of years alongside them could do that to an angel and a demon. Aziraphale felt a loose red curl touch his temple, and the bizarre urge to reach and run his hands through Crowley’s hair gripped him. Thousands of years alongside Crowley, and he’d think that restraint would become easier and not more agonizing.

///

They got their jobs done. It took longer than he’d thought it would, to convince the politician that actually working to benefit the people he represented was an idea that he should engage with. Crowley, in turn, found the official to be far more kind-hearted than most who work in the government ever are. They complained about this to one another in the cramped hotel room, though Aziraphale pretended to mind a little more than he really did. A week spent with Crowley didn’t feel like an inconvenience at all, though he pouted and played along. (That wasn’t really _ lying _, was it? Just acting, and Aziraphale adored the theatre. If his acting was lying then Aziraphale might’ve been the most disobedient angel in Her universe for the last six thousand years.)

When they returned to London a little less than two weeks later, jobs finished, Aziraphale felt that same uneasy longing that always came with splitting apart from Crowley. He knew, that in terms of eternity, a few months or even years away from one another was not a long time. And yet, his half-human heart ached as if it was a final farewell. 

The beginning of the eighteenth century was a pleasant few decades. He did his angelic works, as it was his duty, but became even more immersed in the affairs of mankind. He learned the gavotte and tended to hang around those with similar taste as himself. It was in its way morbid, though, to become close to humans. They were so delicate; their morals and beliefs changed quick and they seemed to die even quicker. Still, Aziraphale enjoyed their company, even if it was short-lived. He and Crowley met in London, for the most part, and occasionally other parts of their isles. Every time he wasn’t around for a while, Aziraphale found that engaging with the troubles and joys of mankind was a good enough distraction. 

After a year or so of pondering he decided that it’d been about four thousand years, give or take a few centuries. Maybe it’d been since the beginning, when he’d outstretched his wing to protect Crowley from the first thunderstorm. It never got any easier. If anything, little by little, _ it _ had grown farther and farther out of his control.

It had been six months since they’d met when Aziraphale decided to ask Crowley if he cared for a non-work related excursion. Most of their communication since their business trip to Paris had been strictly work-related, with a few relaxed dinners here and there.

Aziraphale talked him into it, in 1753. It didn’t take much convincing to make Crowley agree that they “deserved” a little time off. They’d taken a few vacations over the millennia, most lasting only a few days for fear their respective sides would realize how useless they both were to the ethereal and occult causes. They’d never noticed though, and Aziraphale didn’t see the harm in playing human for a while. They discussed the details over tea in London.

“Greece, maybe? It’s been a while.”

“Perhaps…” Aziraphale replied, but he didn’t really mean it. The country had wonderful views and great food, but it was far too hot for his taste.

“Well, Germany’s an option.”

“Don’t they have a war on?”

“Everyone’s got a war on,” Crowley replied. They sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

“Ah,” Crowley said. Though he was wearing his sunglasses, Aziraphale thought he could see his reptile eyes flash behind them. “I know where you want to go.”

“Where?”

“France. It’s always France.”

“Not always,” Aziraphale shot back. “But it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s alright. Too many rats, for my taste..”

“Rats are everywhere.”

“France it is, then.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be France.”

Crowley smiled as he shook his head. “This many years, and you think that I can’t tell when you’ve made up your mind?”

He could have melted, then, into a pool of angelic goop. Instead, he held himself together as best as he could and attempted a normal smile.

“France, then.”

///

They arrived in the evening as the city was fervently trying to finish its tasks before the night shut its workers in. Though they’d discussed taking a boat and a carriage the human way, they decided that demonic and angelic transport would be far more convenient, though awkward. Before the age of communication by telephone whenever angels or demons had to move from one place to another on earth, they’d go through their respective realms. They were like shortcuts, really. The only issue was when beings on either of their sides asked questions. Something demons and angels have in common is that they tend to be nosy.

They met in the Jardin des Tuileries, with Aziraphale falling unceremoniously to the ground from heaven above, much like an apple falling from a tree. The sun was dipping below the trees at the edges of the garden, dappling the grass with shifting shadows of leaves. He stood up to find that he’d landed upon a beautiful array of poppies.

“Louis won’t be too happy about that,” he muttered. Aziraphale walked the paths as he waited for Crowley to sprout from the earth. There were guards posted along the edges of the garden, but Aziraphale used a little angelic miracle to make himself unnoticeable. He turned towards a patch of grass where it sounded like a tree was being pulled up from its roots. He grew from the soil like one of his beloved plants.

Crowley dusted the dirt from his coat. “Remind me to never do that again.”

“I agree. Though boats are unpleasant as well, the way they just threw me down here is despicable.” He helpfully brushed off a clot of debris from Crowley’s shoulder. “Might we try-”

“Café Procope?” they said simultaneously.

“I’m truly that predictable?” Aziraphale said.

“Eh, a bit.”

They passed the royal guards without issue and stepped onto the street. It was a warm May evening, just a little bit on the side of too hot; renaissance painting clouds hung in the sky, streaked with pink from the setting sun. They walked along the Seine and across the Pont Neuf side by side; Azirapahle watched the sunset along the entire route. If Crowley’s eyes had settled on him and stayed there, the angel pretended not to realize. He didn’t want to break the majesty of it, the soft and shivery feeling it left on his neck and face. Crowley was always a good listener, keeping his attention on Aziraphale when they were together. He appreciated it, often craved it; there are few things that feel better than being heard and understood by someone who wanted to hear and understand him. It was unsaid, of course, he feared to acknowledge it would ruin its power somehow. Some things were better left unsaid, he had learned in his long life, even if it was difficult knowledge to keep alone. 

The decor had changed since he’d last been in. It’d somehow become even more opulent, huge mirrors lined the walls, and the trimmings inside were painted in gold. Plants now grew on the balcony, fragrant blossoms which helped the street below smell just a bit better. It was as popular as ever, if not more- the tables were still crowded and smoky. Despite this, there was suddenly a free table for two when they walked in. After ordering red wine, Crowley smiled.

“Do you remember that pomegranate wine we had in Egypt?” he asked. Aziraphale smiled wistfully. 

“Never found another like it, really. It’s been so long but I can still remember the taste.”

“You almost got bitten by a crocodile, on the bank of the Nile.”

Aziraphale frowned. The memory still unnerved him; being eaten would undoubtedly be an awful way to be discorporated. “I don’t see how it’s my fault that they blend into the sand so well.”

“I had to pull you away, and you thought I was going to try and discorporate you.”

“I didn’t know better, then. We hadn’t known one another for very long.”

“Guess you’re right. Still, I knew you’d never try to hurt me.”

“You couldn’t have _ known.” _

“Oh, I did. The day I met you I did, when you told me that you gave the humans your flamin' sword.”

Aziraphale winced. Every time he was reminded of the object, he felt an unpleasant shiver down his spine. “If you’d give them a sword, I knew you’d never try to kill me.”

“Because I didn’t have a proper weapon?”

Crowley laughed. “Because you’re kinder than the rest of them, really.”

His hand was shaking slightly as he picked up his wine glass. He was translucent, Crowley could see every thought and feeling muddled together within him. He knew, he realized. He knew, maybe before Aziraphale himself even did. Saying it, just then, wouldn’t have been to much effect. It had been said before, in a thousand indirect ways that all added up to _ I would not know what I am without my knowledge of you. _

They drank quietly. It had all been said already, hadn’t it? Aziraphale was thinking, and Crowley was watching him think. He wished suddenly that he could pull the glasses off of his face and look at him in the eyes directly, just to make sure he saw what he felt in his eyes. 

“Do you want to take a walk, angel? The table will be right where we left it when we return,” Crowley said. As always, he said it and it was true. They stepped out from the crowded space into open air, twilight left the sky a soft lavender hue. 

“This way?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded. The street was mostly empty, aside from a few water carriers with large pails on their backs. The silence nearly became too long, but as Aziraphale was about to make a frivolous comment Crowley took his hand in his, lacing their fingers together.

“Oh.” was all he could manage. They continued walking down the street, and Aziraphale’s attention honed in completely to their point of contact. Crowley’s hand was surprisingly soft, he didn’t expect it for some reason, and he was pleasantly cool to the touch. The air felt ethereal, pure and- heavy footsteps, a power unlike the kind Crowley radiates, or his own. With a start, he dragged Crowley into a narrow alley.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then put both of his hands to Crowley’s throat.

“Foul demon!” Aziraphale cried out. His voice was shaky, unconvincing. Still, he continued. “You thought you could try to spread evil here without my knowledge?”

“What-”

“Let this be a lesson to you about meddling in earthly affairs!” Aziraphale said. Crowley’s eyes widened with the realization. He bolted down the alley and twisted around the corner, as Aziraphale instantly created a flash of ethereal light and a pile of ash on the cracked cobblestones below him. The sound of footsteps bounced around the narrow street and off of its walls from the mouth of the alley. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. His faux, even tone put a pit in his stomach. “Did you just smite the demon Crowley?”

“I did,” Aziraphale answered. He attempted a smile that wilted before it could even come to be.

Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder with a prideful gaze. He was to be called a liar, to be cast out from heaven’s good graces. The angel froze under Gabriel’s touch.

“You know, Aziraphale, I’m glad you’re our guy down here. You really get into the weeds, going after the demons.”

He didn’t realize he had stopped breathing until he started again. “Thank you, Gabriel. Why- why did you come here? Now?”

If the question was defensive, Gabriel didn’t notice. “I saw that you used the transport system, and wanted to check-in. It’s been a few centuries! You went from Great Britain to… what’s this place called again?”

“France.”

“Ah yes. _ France. _” Gabriel said it like one would say a word when they weren’t quite sure of the definition. “Anyways, I see that you’re getting a lot done here.”

Aziraphale nodded in response. He was numb in both his head and heart.

“Well, keep discorporating, keep up the good fight, alright? I’ll see you soon.” With another pat on the back and a flash of blinding light, he evaporated into thin air. Aziraphale leaned against the stone wall behind him, tipping his chin up towards the sky above.

Thousands of years had passed and that was the time Gabriel chose to grace him with his presence. He straightened up and smoothed out the front of his coat.

_ It was for the best, _he decided. He thought of holy water and hellfire, the crowded halls of the damned and the vast empty atriums of the saved. 

///

He climbed two staircases to reach their little room. There was really no reason to share, but they’d decided to come to France on a whim, and Aziraphale didn’t have much time to make arrangements. (Of course, another room could’ve helpfully become unbooked on the same floor. It didn’t.)

When he tried the door, it was already unlocked. Crowley was relaxing on the bed, a book in his hand. From his posture, he had not a care in the world, but Aziraphale knew well that the demon never read books. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s eyes peeked up over the flimsy book he was purportedly reading. He doubted it was anything more than blank pages, if Crowley had created it by way of a demonic miracle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. It was-“

“Awful timing, on that angel’s part.”

“Precisely.” he replied.

“Well-“ Crowley said. “-we could just go out for a little stroll again if you’d like.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It is pretty dark. But what do an angel and a demon have to fear from some petty criminals?” Crowley tossed the book aside and sat up.

“We have a lot to fear, Crowley!” Aziraphale said. His voice was shaking, another downside of the human form. Crowley was watching him behind his glasses. Any hint of happiness was smoothed from his features.

He paused, steeling himself. “I know,” Crowley said. “But isn’t it worth the risk?”

“You don’t know what they’d do to you.”

Crowley scowled. “Of course I do.”

“You don’t.”

He’d seen what holy water did to demons, before. Thousands of years before, but the memory still chilled him. He imagined Crowley doused with the same substance, suffering the writhing agony that comes before obliteration. It didn’t matter what he wanted, or even what he felt.

“Answer me,” he said. Crowley sat frozen in place, expressionless. Somewhere in the back of his mind Aziraphale wondered how he had so much control.

Aziraphale took in a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

The room seemed to freeze, as Crowley’s uncaring gaze morphed into something like pain for an instant. As soon as he’d blinked, the demon was just as he was before.

“Right. Well. I think I’ve got some demonic deeds to do, really. Best get on with it.”

“We could still-“

“Nah, it’s alright. We’ll have dinner another time.”

Nothing more to say. Aziraphale forced his expression into a tight-lipped smile. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, already striding towards the door. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “And, angel.”

“Yes?”

“If you ever make up your mind, will you tell me?”

The door creaked as Crowley shut it. He heard footsteps down the hallway, then the sickening sound of nothing at all. Aziraphale was alone. More alone, perhaps, than he’d ever been.

///

“See you soon” is a very relative statement, especially for a frustrated demon. It was a very lonely set of decades for Aziraphale at the end of the eighteenth century. The angel tried to keep himself busy. He strayed from London far more than previously, popping in to Berlin, Stockholm, and Amsterdam when the emptiness felt particularly wide. Paris was still one of his favorite places, though there seemed to be a discomfort brewing in the city that he couldn’t quite muster up the effort to look into. He went to Le Procope mainly to drink and brood, which he’d become particularly good at. He’d like to tell Crowley about it; the demon would find it quite funny.

“Might as well paint your wings black yourself,” Crowley would say. “You’re practically a demon already. ‘Brooding’ is a third of the job description.” Then Aziraphale would huff and frown like it was not even a little funny. But Crowley wasn’t there, and he was the whole reason the ruminating kept going on and on anyways. 

On a particularly dower day in London, Aziraphale decided that a crêpe from Le Procope might just be the perfect distraction. The café was still there, despite everything, and wasn’t that somehow hopeful? Little in Aziraphale’s life was consistent, humans shifted and changed far too fast for his liking. Crowley had been a constant since the dawn of the Arrangement, but now Aziraphale wasn’t sure it’d ever be the way it was again. He wished that Crowley could understand why they couldn’t. Friendship, perhaps, was still dangerous, but they’d made it so far without being thrown into the void. Le Procope, though, was sticking around quite longer than he’d expected.

_ Crêpes, _ he thought. _ That’ll sort me out. _

Though he wanted crêpes, Paris had other plans. Bloody, gruesome, and awful plans. Plans that would put him in a pile of paperwork, and in quite a lot of pain, seeing how the guillotine’s blade had been dulled by the necks of hundreds, if not thousands. He stared despairingly down at the iron cuffs that bound him. There was something so awful about knowing that he could escape the cell in seconds, but still being unable to do anything to stop himself from being decapitated.

Humans. Horrible, awful, ugly humans, nearly every one of them.

“Animals,” he muttered. 

“Animals don’t kill each other with clever machines, Angel. Only humans do that.”

And there Crowley was, heaven- well, hell -sent. Aziraphale just barely had the good sense to stop himself from collapsing into his arms. 

“Oh, good lord,” he said. 

In the midst of a revolution, they had crêpes. And despite all of the chaos, they were quite delightful. 

///

They returned, blissfully, to their normal pattern. Aziraphale was almost surprised at how easy it was. There were no awkward conversations, or even any references to what almost been possibly discussed a few decades before. The angel was glad for it, of course, and yet the same pervasive longing still rested in his chest like walking pneumonia. There was much more pleasure in it than illness for the most part. He liked the way they bickered back and forth, and did something that might look a bit like flirting when they’d been drinking; but it weighed heavy on him all the same. 

The humans he met in the nineteenth century were perhaps the most interesting of the species that he’d befriended so far, which was a positive. He was especially fond of a British writer named Oscar, who visited Le Procope often.

They had lunch often. Far less dinners, then, that was the only difference. Lunch was quite alright as well, though. Lunch had more boundaries than dinner, the lines were sharper while dinner’s often blurred. 

Good enough, though. And safer, Aziraphale thought. When Crowley asked him for a morning stroll in 1862, he thought it would turn out to be a fine day, they might even have breakfast _ and _ lunch together. He even remembered to buy bread this time, for the ducks, but it didn’t turn out to be a breakfast and lunch day at all.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Crowley said, and no good sentence ever started that way. “What if it all goes wrong?”

Then he handed him a scrap of paper. His blood ran cold, his heart fell into his stomach. His worst fear, worse than being burned in hellfire. Crowley, melting, drowning. 

Crowley, destroying _ himself. _It was unthinkable, but now he was thinking of it.

“Out of the question,” he said. 

To which Crowley had the audacity of replying “Why not?” 

A universe without Crowley. Even when they hadn’t seen each other in decades, Aziraphale couldn’t envision it. That would not be a universe worth living in. He’d known this, too, as long as they’d had the Arrangement. But in perhaps the same way that he knew he loved Crowley, he never faced it directly, the same way that humans averted their eyes from the sun for their whole lives. Now he was staring the truth right in it’s blinding center.

Now Crowley was requesting it, like it was some sort of solution.

“I don’t need you, _ angel, _ ” Crowley said. It wasn’t the way he often said it, it was an accusation- _ too high and mighty, holier than thou - _ he wished he could explain it, tell him he was wrong, tell him there was no _ point _ to an existence without their lunches and dinners and arrangements. No point at all, not for him.

When he stormed away, he almost felt a little bit better. _ He’ll be safer, _ he thought. Without their friendship, their Arrangement. So there wouldn’t be any more lunches with Crowley, bickering matches with Crowley. But there would be a Crowley, at least. 

The decades following were longer and heavier than any he had yet to endure. But there was a Crowley, somewhere. He even saw him sometimes, walking past his bookshop. A flash of red hair and dark attire, that was all, it could’ve even been his mind playing tricks on him, but it made him feel better to imagine those serpent eyes keeping watch of him.

///

He hadn’t known of the demon he’d seen die. The creature was nameless, defenseless. God had already let the angels have their autonomy, and they took it with pride. Without a sense of self, Aziraphale did what he could and what he knew was right; served God. As he walked the halls and atriums of their plane, all washed in white and iridescence, he thought of nothing else. as there was not a single other thought to occupy him.

The white room he’d was open to the discomforting saturated blue of their realm’s sky. He approached a semicircle of angels, with tumbling robes the same hue as their floors and walls and all else. In front of them lay an angel curled into themselves, silent as their eyes stared blankly into what was not to come.

Demons, then, were any angels who had even suggested a different idea or approach to existence itself. No dark attire or ashen faces, no cunning smiles. No red hair. Just an angel, still an angel, with gashes on their back where wings were torn from their body.

An angel miracled a refilling silver chalice into his dainty hand and held it above the angel. Aziraphale watched with the same stare as the others as holy water was poured onto skin which burned, melted, dissolved to become part of what does not exist. He’d never heard screams before.

After, the angels dispersed to return to their assigned duties, and Aziraphale did the same. It was not until he had touched his feet to earth that he saw the angel’s -demon’s- agonizing end with anything other than righteous justice. 

He didn’t know the angel’s name or their offense. All he knew, and couldn’t forget, were the screeches of life being dragged into irresolvable nothing.

All he knew was that he could imagine Crowley curled up much in the same way, the bones of his shoulder blades exposed by butchery.

He would not let Crowley have the chance of doing the same to himself. 

///

He saved him, again, like some sort of _ guardian demon _ . Aziraphale was starting to suspect that Crowley’s heroics weren’t just coincidences, but what could he say? As they stood in the middle of the ash and rubble, Aziraphale wished to pull his sunglasses off and hold his face in his hands and look into those serpent eyes _ hard _ and see what lay there.

The books. His stomach dropped to his feet. Hundreds of years of collecting and preserving, obliterated in seconds.

And then- Crowley pulled the leather bag from the dead nazi’s grasp. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he said. “Lift home?” 

As they walked away from the destruction he felt as though his human body might explode like the church, remain as gushing blood and unwound entrails and his bursting human heart right in the middle of it. Exposed to the dust, ash, and smoke, right in front of Crowley. It would be a strange thing to explain to the folks upstairs -just a bit of a mistake, fell in love with one of the damned is all- he made it to Crowley’s car with skin and bones intact. Aziraphale forced himself back to the present as he sat down in the passenger’s seat. Cars were far too fast for his taste, but they were better than horses. He was about to mention this to Crowley when his gaze stopped him from speaking.

“I’m going to let it go,” Crowley said, voice even.

“Let what go?”

“The holy water. I’ll let it go.”

“You will?”

Crowley turned the key and the car grumbled to life. He didn’t like how loud they were, either. “Think I understand, now. Why you won’t do it.”

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. It felt like he had been holding his breath for decades, without even realizing. “Good. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m still gonna get it, ‘course, but I’ll get it myself.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to scare me.”

“Scare you? I just saved your life!”

“Well, it won’t work. You can’t frighten me into bringing it to you.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m really not trying to. I might die, though. Forever- dissolved-into-oblivion-die.”

“Stop it!”

Silence. The streets were void of life as the city cowered in fear, huddled around a radio and holding a candle. At least Crowley’s horrendous driving wasn’t likely to kill anyone that night. His unconcerned taunting brought him into a cold sweat.

“You could slow down a bit.”

“Nobody’s around, angel.”

Decades had past, and they were back to where they always were. Their same pattern, the same bickering, the same banter. It was like reading a book he’d already read again and again, an old good book that’s been loved to pieces.

“We should catch up. Have a little _ rendez-vous _. It’s been years and I have no idea what you’re up to.”

“I’ve been sleeping, mostly, love a good nap,” he said. A pause “Are you suggesting France?”

He wasn’t, he just liked kitchy little phrases. But now he was thinking about Paris, and that little alleyway that must still be there. The war was on, but he knew Le Procope was still open. Always open.

He swallowed. “Best not.”

“Right,” Crowley replied. “Well. Whenever you make up your mind.”

He remembered the same phrase, from that little inn room.

“Yes, well. You can drop me off at the bookshop, please.”

Crowley nodded. “We’ll have lunch soon, yeah?”

He smiled a little. “Yes.” Crowley had missed him. It was more satisfying to know than he’d expected it to be. “I hear the Ritz is quite good.”

“Oh? There, then.”

When Crowley slowed to a stop in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale picked up the bag of books from the floor. He opened the door and stepped out.

Light reflected off of Crowley’s glasses. His expression was unreadable; Aziraphale was woefully out of practice in terms of Crowley’s miniscule tells.

He said it, before he could force it back down. “I’m still thinking. About it.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You are?”

“I am.”

London was more silent than it had ever been. No bombs, nothing at all. Even Crowley’s car seemed to fall silent for a second, holding its breath along with the angel and the demon.

“You are,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale suddenly felt the urge to flee. “Well. Thanks, again.” He heard the “shaddap!” through the window.

The angel watched from the sidewalk as Crowley drove away, tires screeching against the potholed street. He couldn’t help but smile to himself. The loneliness was already slowly seeping out of him, togetherness filling up the spaces that it once made home again.

///

“Isn’t this scrumptious?” Aziraphale asked. He used the edge of his fork to cut off another morsel of strawberry cake.

“Yeah, wonderful. Very sweet,” Crowley said, also taking another bite.

“Not too sweet, though. Just right.”

“No, ‘course not. Couldn’t have that, could we?”

The Ritz had been absolutely delightful, to the point that Aziraphale was ready to welcome it into his heart as another one of his favorite places. The massive dining hall was rich and full, bathed in every shade of gold and yellow. Crowley even seemed particularly pleased, and Aziraphale tended to enjoy restaurants far more than he did.

It took longer to have lunch together than he’d expected. But a war does complicate things, for humans and immortals alike. When Crowley stepped into his bookstore with a hopeful smile, though, he knew that it was finally the right moment.

“I missed this, a bit,” Aziraphale admitted. It seemed like a safe enough phrase.

“Hm?”

“I missed having lunch.”

Crowley still looked confused. “Surely you’ve had lunch since we’ve last eaten together.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He’d just discovered that recently, when speaking to an annoyed young woman attempting to buy one of his books. He promptly began to roll his eyes at least once a day from that moment forward. “I meant having lunch with you.”

Crowley grinned. “Oh, I know. Just wanted to hear it.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shifted his gaze, but his heart was blooming in his chest. It felt like home at last.

///

They were having lunch, again. Aziraphale tried not to analyze how he had begun to divide up his six thousand years of life into categories: the before lunch era, the lunch era, the dinner era. Then there were the gap years. Now it was the lunch renaissance, and he couldn’t be happier. (Surely he _ could _ be happier. He was reminded of this every time they sat side by side in his bookshop, sharing a bottle of wine.) They didn’t speak of holy water, or Paris, or any centuries-old cafés. He’d almost forgotten the bloody blessed water until he found out about Crowley’s foolish plan to steal it from a church. Crowley had even hired goons to help him retrieve it. Didn’t he see it in that church before, just sitting out like a bird bath?

Without even meaning to, Crowley had forced his hand. Aziraphale took one of his favorite thermoses to the church only a few blocks away. After using a tiny miracle to make himself unnoticeable, he filled the thermos and hoped to God that it was the right decision. Well, God would probably not approve at all, so he tried to ignore that too.

He sat in Crowley’s car, nervously tapping his shoes against the floor. He’d thought every moment of getting out and running away ‘till he saw him. Walking the way he always did, hips and legs first, his torso following. A bit like gravity didn’t matter to him at all, which was likely the case.

He still felt uneasy when he handed the holy water over. The look on Crowley’s face was almost worth it, all of the angles softened by undeniable gratefulness. It was poison, and Crowley was thankful for it.

“Should I say thank you?” Crowley asked. He to look away, through the windshield. It was unbearable, the tenderness in the way he said it. The pressure he felt in his chest was only continuing to build, more and more with each passing decade, far past the point where Aziraphale thought he might just combust. It was a kind of guilt or regret; he became painfully aware of how every moment would be different if he’d give in, or simply walk away a final time.

“Better not.”

“Well, can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.”

He still couldn’t meet his eyes fully. It was infuriating, sometimes, how his own gaze could not be covered while Crowley could keep his constantly guarded.

“Don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know, go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” Return to Le Procope, he wanted to add. To that little alleyway.

With that same soft expression, Crowley tried again. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

He was so close, close enough to cradle his jaw in his hand. That was what he wanted to do, wasn’t it? It felt like a cruel trick, to love a demon. Crowley had asked him why God put the tree of knowledge into the garden of Eden, when it was such a temptation. Then he became what he questioned, so close Aziraphale could hold him in his hands, so close he could almost taste without ever taking a bite.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He stepped out before he could steal another look, could try to gauge his reaction. He walked down the dark street, bumping into drunken and jolly people. Alone, once again.

///

A few months later, Aziraphale asked Crowley if he’d like to go on a walk. The demon agreed, and they met on the corner by Aziraphale’s bookshop. He still had bangs, but his hair had grown a bit longer, had a little more curl to it. He wondered if it was intentional or accidental, though Crowley was always particular about his hair. Aziraphale quite liked when it was longer and curlier; he still remembered the gleaming red coils that fell down his back as they stood on the garden wall, that first time. Once or twice he thought of mentioning it, before remembering himself. Besides, it was amusing to see it change nearly every time he saw him.

They walked the streets of London side by side, talking and observing the humans around them. Humans were always in such a rush, Aziraphale wondered what such an existence would be like.

“It must feel like you’re always running out of time,” Aziraphale said.

“Hm?”

“To be human. They haven’t got very long, that must be why they’re always in a hurry.”

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. “Must be at least a little thrilling, though. To only have one life.”

“Or terrifying. There’s not really a way to rectify anything, once you’re gone.”

“They do what they want too, though, most of them. They see what they want and they take it. They dream, they do. Right or wrong be damned, they go right on ahead.”

Silence. Aziraphale knew what he meant, what he was implying. For a second, he imagined what it’d be like to be human. Him and Crowley, human together. He supposes he could own a bookshop. Crowley could… be an investment banker, or some other sort of legal criminal. Something nefarious. They could even live together, above the bookshop. He supposed that he’d actually have to attempt to sell books, then, as he would need an income. But he wouldn’t have a large collection at all, in that case, because he couldn’t have been around for hundreds of years collecting them.

No miracles, demonic or otherwise. No ethereal or demonic transport. No good or bad deeds to perform. Just Crowley and Aziraphale.

“It’d be nice, then, to be human,” Aziraphale agreed. “No need to worry about so many rules. Well, until they’re dead.”

“Yeah, but who cares about that? It’s just dying.”

“Dying is not something to joke about, Crowley.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I shouldn’t have ever given you holy water.”

“Well, I’d much rather be obliterated than burn in hellfire for eternity, wouldn’t you?”

He shivered at the thought. “I suppose so.”

“You _ suppose _ so,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale scowled. Every time their conversations drifted towards such subjects, he was reminded of how much separated the two of them. There was a deep chasm between their realities that was rarely breeched and could never be mended.

“Oh!” Crowley said, still smiling despite Aziraphale’s obvious annoyance. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. You’ll be proud of me.”

Rarely any good ever came from the sentence “you’ll be proud of me” if Crowley said it.

“What?”

“I saved Le Procope.” He said, wearing that clever little smile he usually reserved for admiring his own devious tricks and plans.

“What?”

“I went to Paris on my own about twenty years ago. I’d overheard that Le Procope was going to be closed, and possibly turned into a hotel.”

“No,” the angel gasped.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley confirmed. “But I stopped it.”

“How?”

“I bribed the owner, of course. Now she has enough money to retire on a Greek island.”

“Did you really?”

“Yep.” He grinned.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. Then, right in the middle of London, taking up the sidewalk, he pulled him into his arms. Crowley’s arms snaked around his torso and held him there. He smelled strangely of freshly ground peppercorn, spiced and warm. He held on a few seconds longer than he knew was appropriate. (Though, for an angel, avoiding smiting a demon in a kilometer radius is likely seen as monstrous.) A couple humans took notice, but he paid them no mind.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you.”

“You’re proud of me, then?” Crowley asked. He looked incredibly pleased with himself, standing up a little straighter as they continued walking.

The angel nodded. “I’m not sure bribery is quite the right way to go about things, of course, but all the same. That café is very special to me.”

“I quite like it too. Good crêpes.”

“Ah, I’d love a crêpe.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s not too late for breakfast. Or we could call it brunch.”

“The crêpes just aren’t the same here,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Paris, then?” Crowley asked. There was that same hopefulness, that undeniable_ want _in his tone. Every time it revealed itself, Aziraphale’s heart only grew more sore.

“Perhaps a more English breakfast would do. Eggs benedict, maybe?”

Crowley’s shoulders sunk just a little. “Right, English breakfast. Wouldn’t mind some eggs myself.”

Was this what they would be, forever? Forever wishing and hoping, side by side? Stealing breakfasts and lunches and hugs like they were criminal acts? He’d never desired to be human before, though he’d always been fascinated by them. Now, though- eighty or ninety years would be a long enough lifetime after all, if he could live how he’d like to.

///

On the phone, Crowley had said it was important, serious. As he strolled towards St. James’ Park, he’d hoped that Crowley had begun to consider lunch as vital as he always had.

But Crowley didn’t, in fact, want to discuss lunch. He told the angel of the antichrist as if it were an unfortunate situation, not truly the end of days. Even Aziraphale couldn’t truly picture it. He couldn’t envision an end; the world and Crowley were constants. Once again his thoughts turned to 1753, to that alleyway in Paris, to Gabriel, to what was inevitable. The urge to say something, to decide, remained right behind his tongue. _ “If you make up your mind, will you tell me?” _Crowley had said. But it wasn’t his choice at all.

“We will win, of course.”

Crowley smiled incredulously. “You really believe that?”

“Obviously.”

Even as he said it, his heart sank. With no Hell, there would be no Crowley. One came with the other. Crowley rattled off his favorite composers, which he knew Aziraphale coveted.

“And that’s just the start of what you’ll lose if you win. No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you, no gravlax in dill sauce…”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening anymore. He could feel the slight breeze through his short curls, could see the expectant ducks waiting for bread along the wire fencing. He could almost see the Procope. The yellow light of its chandeliers spilled out onto the cobblestones, flowers and vines hung from the balcony. His favorite fascinating little restaurant, where they used to know his name, before Crowley had asked him to make up his mind.

This would be their end, then. The decision was made for him. It was almost a relief to have it over and done with.

“We’ve only got eleven years, and then it’s all over. We have to work together.”

Crowley still had hope, then. Aziraphale didn’t expect it, though it made sense. Those who have already fallen cannot be made to stoop any further. 

“No.” He refused and denied. It was lunch that got him. He’d never said no to lunch, and if Crowley asked it was as inevitable as the ineffable plan.

///

Taking care of the antichrist seemed like it would be a decades-long nightmare. Instead, it was oddly comforting to keep watch of the boy. Despite his evil parentage, he truly did just seem to be a little boy. A moody little boy, sure, but a boy all the same. He also liked gardening, despite the unruliness of the vines and spiny weeds that seemed to pop up overnight. (“All they need is a good thrashing,” Crowley once said. Aziraphale refused to take his advice, though he had to admit that the demon’s potted plants were always flourishing.) The task also made it necessary to meet with Crowley weekly to discuss the boy’s development and compare notes. 

“He’s been mischievous lately. I saw him burying figurines in the vegetable plot,” Aziraphale said disdainfully. He’d just planted chives, which were fragile before they properly took root. 

“Mischievous doesn’t mean evil, angel. They’re two very different things.”

“Surely it’s just a very early precursor to true malice.”

“Dunno about that,” Crowley said. “You’re mischievous yourself.”

“I’m not!”

Crowley shrugged. “You’re currently having coffee with a demon.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale muttered. “I fear his disposition is inevitable. What if this is all futile?”

“Now, I never knew you to be a cynic.”

“Every day now, I feel as though we’re running out of time.”

Crowley took another sip of coffee. “Maybe we are.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You can say it, and I can’t?”

“Precisely.”

Crowley’s mood was dampened. “Finish your drink, angel. We should be getting back.”

With a sinking heart, Aziraphale finished the latte and stood. Every day, they creeped closer and closer to the end of the world, unless their experiment on Warlock succeeds. If either side won, he would lose. It was either eternal damnation or eternity without book shops and cafés, parisian or otherwise, and Crowley. Both results were terrifying to even contemplate.

Aziraphale blinked, and Crowley had transformed back into his nanny attire. He quite liked the hair, curly and red like his hair should be. With an exaggerated sigh he did the same. They returned to the mansion as an unrefined gardener and a goth middle-aged woman. An odd couple indeed.

///

Crowley was dressed in white for the birthday party. Aziraphale quite liked him in white, it’d been a few decades since he’d worn another color than black and dark grey. His hair was short, but that was the fashion for men at the time. He never really understood fashion, anyways. He liked clothes of course, with all their clever buttons and ruffles. But the constant change in human’s whims seemed unnecessary, and he gave up keeping track of it all long ago. He’d found clothes he’d liked and stuck with them, sometimes for centuries.

Crowley stared at him as he set up his performance. Aziraphale attempted a smile and utterly failed, while Crowley’s scowl deepened in response.

Eleven years of efforts led to the boy who he watched making fun of one of his party guests for the boy’s scuffed shoes. Crowley’s influence seemed more apparent in the boy than his own. Maybe the demon was just too good at his job, and Warlock would name the hell hound “throat ripper” or something just as stomach-turning.

If there was any time to put his heart in order and tell Crowley how he felt, it was far gone. At the very least, they’d spent their last years on Earth working together, being together in the ways that they could. The war would start and end, and they’d know that they’d tried their best to avoid it.

Later, covered in cake and custard, Aziraphale looked at Crowley in the passenger seat of his car.

“No dog.” Crowley said.

“No dog.”

“Wrong boy.”

“Wrong boy.”

It was funny, then, at the end of days, that he felt a twinge of hope. It wasn’t over yet, they were still together.

///

They were doing something about it, at least. Perhaps if they found the right boy they could- well, they hadn’t quite figured that part out yet- but they’d do something, surely. They started at the place where it all started, the hospital. The last thing Aziraphale expected to happen was to be shot, and particularly not with a blue paintball. 

“Look at the state of this coat,” he said. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew it was silly to be upset over an article of clothing when Earth was coming to an end as they knew it.

Still. “I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now. I’ll never get this stain out!”

Crowley frowned and circled him to survey the damage. 

“Well, you can miracle it away.”

“Yes, but…” he sighed. “I would always know the stain was there. Underneath, I mean.”

Crowley looked at the stain for a second more, before leaning towards him. With an exhale the stain evaporated into dust and floated away.

Aziraphale beamed. Despite the fact that it was the end of it, the world had never seemed better to him. “Thank you.”

At the dawn of armageddon, it seemed idiotic that he’d ever kept it secret at all; it was love. Maybe it’d taken him thousands of years to accept it, but when the end came near he knew it well enough. There was not a single other force more important, for humans or demons or angels or God. There was love, and there was everything else.

They’d have to survive. If Aziraphale wanted his existence to mean anything, he had no other choice. He picked up the weapon to observe it. If they were going to make it far enough for any of it to matter, they’d have to work at it.

///

It seemed simple, for just that moment. Then Crowley ran into that poor woman, and Aziraphale found the book. _ The _ book. He took it into his arms and didn’t tell Crowley. Part of him feared what he’d find inside: scared that the prophecies of Agnes Nutter might be false, and absolutely terrified that her visions could be true.

_ When the angel that readeth these words of mine, in his shop of other men’s books, then the final days are certes upon us. _

He refused to get up from the chair until he’d scanned nearly every prophecy. Page after page after page. Some seemed like complete gibberish. Others were as clear as day, absolutely indisputable historical events, some that he’d even witnessed himself.

For better or for worse, Agnes did not describe the actual end of days, who would win. There was hope, still. A tiny particle of hope the size of a grain of dust that swirled around his bookshop, yes, but all the same.

///

_ “Have a nice doomsday,” _ Crowley had said. Aziraphale felt cold and empty as he continued to pour over Agnes Nutter’s nice and accurate prophecies. _ It’ll be fixed soon enough, _ he thought. With a shaking hand he brought his mug to his lips, taking a sip of chamomile. There wouldn’t have to run; they could go back to the way it had been. There had to be a chance.

Nearly every cell in his human form wanted to accept Crowley’s offer. It could just be the two of them, together. Eternity with one another, not as demons or angels- just as themselves. 

Aziraphale craved it, could already imagine it, but the gravity and love held him steadfast to the planet. He wanted their lives on Earth even more and couldn’t flee as it burned. He couldn’t give up on his fascinating little restaurants, or the rest.

It’d all go back to normal, he was sure of it. They hadn’t lost yet. He’d turn towards the light, however cold and unforgiving it was.

The war could be avoided if only he could convince the angels. Weren’t they meant to be the beacons of light and hope, the saviors of humanity? He’d always bickered about the nature of angels with Crowley, about how they might adhere to some arbitrary rules but when it really came down to it they always stood for peace.

He had to try. From his bookshop, he called upon Gabriel to meet him. Though he could’ve used more angelic methods, the telephone did the job just fine.

Out of breath, he explained to him the situation. The prophecies, the real, true, promising prophecies that didn’t say that there had to be a war, or that anyone had to win. 

“I just thought there was something we could do,” Aziraphale said.

“There is,” Gabriel replied, and Aziraphale’s spirits lifted for a millisecond. “We can fight and we can win.”

“But there doesn’t have to be a war.”

“Of course there does! Otherwise, how would we win it?”

The spark of hope died in him just then. There was no way around it. The angels he was a part of, the angels that he’d defended to Crowley for years didn’t care about humanity at all. There was just the plan, that was all. And how could it be otherwise? Besides himself none of them had ever interacted with actual humans on a personal level, aside from a few missions as messengers.

Was that all he was? Another adherent to an ideology and system that oftentimes made no sense at all? If their goal wasn’t good, then what were they even there for? He stood in the middle of the walking path. Bile rose in his throat, beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. Both burning hot and ice cold, he began to walk home. His home would be gone, soon. It was, of course, ineffable.

No. He shook his head, and began to mutter to himself. No, it wasn’t possible. It could all still be sorted. What was Gabriel? Just another angel. A powerful one, but an angel all the same. Aziraphale began to mentally recall a ritual he’d learned long ago, far before he’d made earth his home. Yes, it was a solution. God would understand, would see why this was all unnecessary. 

Aziraphale turned when he heard tires screech to a halt on the sidewalk beside him.

“Angel! I’m sorry, I apologize, whatever I said I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologizing here. Yes? Good, get in the car.”

He forced himself to stay rooted in place. Crowley continued to speak, a rush of words that sounded so blessedly hopeful-

Could he give all of it up, for Crowley? All of his books, his favorite foods, the authors and poets and painters he loved to converse with throughout the eras. When that was done away with, could he live just as himself, just with the being standing in front of him.

Perhaps. But he couldn’t give up, not yet.

“I’m quite sure if I can just reach the right people then I can get all this sorted out.”

Crowley stepped forward. He still smelled like freshly ground pepper, fresh and bright and so close that he would only have to move his hand a few centimeters to be able to grab his wrist and let himself be whisked away. Alpha Centauri. A star system that sounded more like a fairytale land than an actual place they could reach.

“There aren’t any right people, there’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us!”

He would talk to him, make him understand. 

“That won’t happen. You’re so clever- how can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Aziraphale felt that awful pain again, like the network of systems that kept his organs functioning were pulling apart from each other, collapsing under their own weight. This would be forgotten, after he’d stopped the war from happening. Crowley would apologize, and he would too, he decided. It would all be set right.

“I forgive you,” he said. The man -demon- in front of him would say the same soon enough. He had to believe it.

“Oh,” Crowley muttered, like the air had been forced out of him. In an instant, he set his jaw and flounced back towards the car.

“When I’m up in the stars, I won’t even think about you!” he yelled. Aziraphale tipped his chin up as his eyes filled with tears. 

“I’ve been there,” a man said, voice filled with sympathy. “You’re better off without him.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale admitted in response. It was a realization that he’d come upon the instant he said it. Far after the man had continued walking, he brushed a tear from his eye with a sleeve.

“I’m not,” he repeated. His body worked on muscle memory as he made his way towards the bookshop. He could picture the correct sigil perfectly, and could only hope that he could repeat the same pattern in reality as it was in his imagination. The sky continued to darken as he rushed past humans, who seemed to be in just as much of a hurry as he was. His stomach churned as he thought that their hurrying could end horrifyingly soon. He kept his head down and eyes focused on his shoes, to make it more bearable. It would be impossible to see their faces, to watch their expressions. The world was about to end, and they had absolutely no idea. The angel only looked up when three of his own kind crowded against him at the mouth of an alleyway. Desperately, he tried to explain, to make them understand. 

“Don’t think your boyfriend will get you special treatment in hell. He’s in trouble too.” Uriel said. Crowley had said it, but to hear it from angels was somehow more horrifying. He and Crowley were being cast out by their own kind. They were the same at last, yet in the most disfiguring way.

Uriel held him against the wall by his coat. Their eyes looked so flat, like cold stones. Not angry, or spiteful; an absolute apathy.

“We’re the good guys,” he said, but he didn’t believe it. The three shot up into the heavens, leaving him on the grey street. Humans bustled past, oblivious to what was to come. Despite their rushing about, he was absolutely alone.

///

There was nothing left to do. Metatron said what Gabriel said. If God thought differently, They refused to show otherwise.

Crowley. Their side, the only side he had left. The only side Crowley had left, too, after what Uriel had said. His stomach dropped to think of what demons do to those that betray them. He bolted for the telephone, dialing Crowley’s number with shaking hands.

“Hello? I know where the anti-” he stopped, Crowley was talking over him. “I know who you are you idiot, I telephoned you. I know where the antichrist-”

“Yeah, it’s not a good time, I’ve got an old friend here.”

An old friend? _ He _ was Crowley’s old friend. 

He turned to find Sargent Shadwell approaching him, tools of exorcism in hand. The last thing he could handle at that very moment.

///

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. He kept coming in and out of focus, his voice sounded far away, but it was him. 

“Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things,” he said. “Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

“Nah, I-I changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend.”

Perhaps it was the “old friend” he’d mentioned on the phone before. Aziraphale didn’t let himself dwell on it. “I’m so sorry to hear it.” They didn’t have time to talk about any of it, if they wanted to have a chance. 

“Listen, back in my bookshop there’s a book I need you to get.”

Crowley frowned, rested his head in his hand. “Your bookshop isn’t there anymore.”

“Oh?”

“I’m really sorry, it burned down.”

Aziraphale paused. Without a body, he thought he couldn’t feel emotions the same way he had, but it was still there, that awful inexplicable sorrow. Without organs or bones or nerves, he could still feel it.

“All of it?”

“Yeah. What was the book?”

“The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of-”

“Agnes Nutter! Yes, I took it!” He held the book up, voice filled with hope.

They would go together and stand side by side. They would go down _ as _their own side, if they had to. He thought of saying it. But no, best not. They still had a chance, they still had to believe. Not in Lucifer, or even in God, but in themselves. In whatever they had made together in six thousand years.

///

In the end, it was Adam who saved them. Adam, who fought for their side. Adam’s father stood where Satan once was.

Just a boy, and he fixed everything. He was just as Crowley and Aziraphale were. Not ethereal or demonic, evil or pure. He was just a person, and everything that came with that. Sure, he and Crowley were immortal beings who were created near the beginning of time, but they were, when it came down to it, people.

Two people that had more time. Aziraphale stood in the glow of the sun peeking out from dispersing storm clouds, relief filling his soul.

He looked at Crowley. More time. However much it was, it would be enough.

///

As they sat on the old wooden bench waiting for the bus, the fear slowly trickled out of him. He could still feel that warmth that he knew was the boy’s doing. It was all around him, like a warm fog, in his head and his heart. 

He could’ve said it, just then. Crowley’s facial expression was agonizingly unreadable as he passed him the bottle.

“Angel,” he said, and Aziraphale could hear it a trillion more times. “What if the Almighty planned it like this, all along. From the very beginning?”

Planned _ them _? It sounded ridiculous but was entirely and beautifully possible.

“Could have. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

It was waiting to spill out of his mouth, all of it. He almost wanted Crowley to say it instead, but he didn’t forget.

_ If you ever make up your mind, will you tell me? _

The postman came to collect all of the objects. Once again, he gave his sword to a human. He’d spent milenia questioning the choice, but now he knew that it was the right one to make if it led him all the way here.

When the bus came into view, his heart lifted. Home. Everything could return to the way it was.

“I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.”

“It burned down, remember?”

His home, ash.

“You can stay at my place, if you’d like.”

“I don’t think my side would like that.”

“You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

To hear it from Crowley had everything click into place. _ Our side. _

“Have you still got your mobile phone?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley patted at his jeans pocket. “Yeah, right here. Why?”

Aziraphale snatched it from his grip. “We’ve got to go somewhere.” Though the device was largely unfamiliar to him, he managed to open up the keypad and type in a very familiar number. 

“Where?” Crowley asked, but it was too late for the angel to give a response.

_ “Bonsoir?” _a woman’s voice asked.

Aziraphale’s heart was pounding too hard for him to even attempt French. “Yes, hello. I’d like to make a reservation.

“For what day, monsieur?”

“Tonight.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’re going to close soon and aren’t serving any new customers tonight. If you’d like I-”

“Well, it’s-” he paused. “It’s quite important. Let me just-” he took Crowley by the hand, interlocking their fingers together. He detested this method, but it would have to do. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced them through the call. His stomach lurched as though his stomach might be left on the bench while his body fell through the telephone connection. He only opened his eyes when he heard a woman yelp and jump out of her chair. They were crammed into a tiny office with a terrified restaurant manager. Just as she was about to let out a horrified scream, he reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

“No, no. It’s alright. You think this is just an everyday thing, don’t you?”

She looked confused for a second, then relaxed. _ “Oui, bien sûr.” _

“Crowley, make them reserve a table for us,” he whispered loudly.

“I- yeah. Can you, uh, hold a table for two?” Crowley asked.

“Not a problem,” she answered with a smile.

“Thank you, really. This means more than you can imagine.” He realized he was still holding Crowley’s hand, and used it to pull him through the office door. It was quite awkward to force their way through a bustling kitchen and out into the first floor of the dining room.

“Café Procope,” Crowley said. “Why are we here?”

“Will you just wait a minute?” Aziraphale asked. He pulled him towards the front entrance and out onto the street. It was a warm Paris night, tourists and locals passed the restaurant cheerfully, hand in hand. They didn’t look so strange together, on such a street. Just like two human beings in love, in a city that was known for the feeling.

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to the mouth of the alleyway right next to the restaurant. He stood with his back against the wall.

There was so much to say. Six thousand years of explaining and apologizing. Six thousand overwhelming and indescribable years stood between him and kissing Crowley. Now that he let himself think about it, it took over every thought, leaving no room for any speech or proclamation at all.

He reached up with nervous hands and took Crowley’s glasses off. His eyes were shockingly yellow, nearly golden in the fading light.

He swallowed. “Crowley,” he began, not even sure of how he was going to end the sentence as he started it. “I realize now that I’d made an awful mistake nearly three hundred years ago. I should’ve-”

Before he could finish his sentence Crowley had pushed his lips against his and broken away just as quickly. Then again, once more, and then he stayed there. Aziraphale rushed to hold onto his narrow hips, to bring him closer. Every sense both human and angelic focused on Crowley as one of his hands moved from his jaw to his blonde hair. They only broke away when Crowley was gasping for air.

“I forgot-” he breathed, “that I need to do that-”

“Do what?” Aziraphale asked.

“Breathe.”

Both laughed, already breathless, still holding each other. Crowley pushed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, his hands gripping his forearms like he never intended to let go.

“Let me get this right,” he said, voice muffled by the angel’s collar. “So all it took, for you to make up your mind, was the world to nearly end.”

“Oh bugger off,” Aziraphale responded. It tickled when Crowley laughed against his skin. He picked his head up to look Aziraphale in the eyes.

“Angel, I would’ve waited six thousand more years if you’d needed me to.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, just for a moment. “Dinner, then?”

“Do you think they serve beef bourguignon here, these days? I remember that they had a great beef bourguignon.”

“Let's find out, shall we?” 

They moved from the shadows near the alleyway into the warm glow of light. They walked towards the waiter, who most certainly had seen them kiss in the always only a few meters away.

“I believe we have a reservation?”

“A table for two? This way, messieurs.”

Crowley took his hand again as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

///

Aziraphale woke to the quiet sound of breathing, and movement underneath him. He suddenly realized that he’d been sleeping with his head on Crowley’s bare chest. After a millisecond of surprise and borderline panic, he relaxed again. He could hear the drumbeat of Crowley’s heart through his skin and took comfort in the rhythm.

“You’re awake?” Crowley muttered. Aziraphale tipped his head up to look into his serpentine eyes.

“Yes, I’m afraid. I quite like sleeping. It’d been a while, as well.”

“Isn’t it great?” Crowley said through a yawn. Aziraphale lifted his head when he noticed something different about the demon.

“Your hair,” he said. “You’ve changed it.”

Crowley smiled, all teeth. He proudly shook his head to make his curls bounce. “Do you like it?”

It was the same rich red hue, but shoulder length and magnificently curly. Aziraphale couldn’t resist reaching his hand up to card through it. The curls smoothed out as he ran his fingers through them before bouncing cheerily back into place when he pulled his hand away.

“Why, it’s gorgeous.” he continued to watch the curls straighten and curl back up again and again. He couldn’t take his hands out of it even if he wanted to. “Did you know that I adored your long hair?”

“Y’ told me yourself, last night. You had quite a bit to drink, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale blushed, which was an odd thing to do when you’re already naked and laying on top of another being. Physical bodies were mysterious in their ways.

“Perhaps I did, but if there’s ever been a time to celebrate…”

“This is it,” Crowley finished.

Despite hating that he had to, he detangled his fingers from Crowley’s hair and sat up.

“You remember where we are, don’t you?”

“Of course I do… it’s…” Aziraphale’s eyes quickly scanned the opulent room. “The Ritz Paris, isn’t it?”

“That inn we’d stayed at the last time had closed, thought this was the next best choice.”

Silky curtains let in soft light, illuminating beautiful ornate artworks hung on the cream-colored walls. 

“This is…” he didn’t quite have the words.

“Nice?” Crowley tried. Aziraphale shot him a look of distaste. 

“What, you can’t say I’m wrong!”

“No, but it’s more than nice.”

“Doesn’t mean it's not-not-nice.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he looked at Crowley’s lean shoulders, his jutting collarbone.

“To think, all of this happened because you asked me why God didn’t keep the tree of knowledge on the moon.”

“It’s a fair point, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I suppose so.”

Even as he nestled his head into the crook of Crowley’s arm, he let out a sigh.

“They’ll come looking for us, soon, and it won’t take them long.”

“I know, 'been thinking about it. I might’ve figured out Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I’ll explain.”

A pause.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.” He moved his hand up to rest in the angel’s blonde hair. _ Was he an angel anymore? _ He thought. _ Was Crowley still a demon? What were they if they’d been cast out from their own kind? _

“We’re together,” he said aloud and closed his eyes.

Crowley entangled his other hand with Aziraphale’s. “Yeah. Together.”

“At last.”

“At last.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have the chance to, visit café Procope! Comments are appreciated <3


End file.
